


Maybe, but

by writingcap



Category: GsP, Ian Pangilinan - Fandom, Pangpang – Fandom, Paolo Pangilinan - Fandom, neighbors - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Colours, Enemies, High School, M/M, Monochrome, Pettiness, Rivalry, Soulmates, Unrequited, he was in grade school, i think, petty arguments literally lol, secret, they are 16 they are okay to be petty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingcap/pseuds/writingcap
Summary: The world is monochrome until you take sight of your soulmate.
Relationships: Ian Pangilinan/Paolo Pangilinan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 61
Collections: Kilometer Zero: A GSP Prompt Fest 2021





	Maybe, but

**Author's Note:**

> School Press Conference - is a contest held annually for different journalism categories.  
> Division School Press Conference (DSPC) - in that specific city only (?)  
> Regional School Press Conference (RSPC) - per Region, wherein winners from DSPC (the 2nd runner, 1st runner up and Champion gets to represent their Division)

They say the moment you meet your soulmate's eyes—colours will burst before you.

The black and white world will suddenly feel like a painted canvass one could only imagine seeing. It's different for everyone, really. Some say it feels like a current running through your body, shocking you in the most amazing way. Others have lived to tell that it's like the rays of the sun hugging you on a cold winter morning—warm, comfortable, and spreading from your chest to your toes to the strands of your hair. 

Poets have described the white vast ocean suddenly roaring with colour—how the word blue suddenly made all the sense, how it blends with the red and orange of the sun kissing the horizon, how the blue from the sky significantly differs.

Writers have described the trees and its white leaves and its black trunks—not expecting small emerald flags to decorate it. Not expecting to love the brown and how it mirrored their lovers' eyes. 

Other people did not expect red to come flushing up their cheeks in moments where they feel the most alive. Red, heart, blood, life, beating—red has always been the colour people would talk most about. How loud and how alive it looked; _how it showed the colour of love._

People have always known the names of these colours, but only and only then, after they meet their soulmates can they finally understand. Their world of black and white suddenly loud with rainbow. 

Ian Pangilinan has always loved listening and reading about people meeting their soulmate and finally seeing that their world of monochrome was a little bit more than what they were used to. It’s probably one of the reasons why he fell in love with writing. How he used to read all the books in his father's library to try and attempt to understand the colours.

How he'd write poetry in an attempt to replicate the magic of finally seeing the colours himself. He used to play with his Mom's paint, splashing different shades of black and white in a blank canvass. His Mom always told him how amazing his paintings were, how bright and colourful—he couldn't wait then to finally see what she meant. But still, despite discussing colours with him and the never ending tale of telling their story, his parents have always reminded him to be patient, but he has always been stubborn. 

The stories used to amaze him so—how one simple afternoon, colours could just appear and tint the whole world a palette one would spend their entire life exploring. How one day, you don't know what people mean when they say blue and suddenly, you see it in your arms, your veins: blue, purple, sometimes even green—the red blood flowing through. 

His parents had one of the best stories, it actually got featured on Colour Magazine’s 1988 Cover where only the most magical meetings get written about.  Ian plans to work there someday, if fate lets him. 

Ian's parents met in college like most couples do, but theirs were one in a million. Nobody has ever heard a story like theirs. 

It didn’t happen when they first laid eyes on each other, hell it didn’t happen the first few times. Theirs was a colouring book they took time putting the shades in. One day, his Mom told him the sky didn't seem as white anymore and neither did it look completely blue. How different strokes of colours decorated the sky and how his Mom went home that day mixing blue and yellow. 

It was a slow build-up of colours and when asked when it all finally made sense, his Mom would always answer, “I didn’t know that all the colours were never a match to your Dad’s eyes!” 

His Dad tells Ian that he reminds him of the colour green and Ian doesn’t know how to imagine it then, but he thinks of the wind, serene and quiet. The colour of the leaves and the top of healthy mountains, his parents would always point out to the great outdoors and tell Ian all about it.

These made Ian all the more excited for the day his world of black and white will burst of rainbow or the build-up of it. At that point, he didn't care, he just wanted for it to happen, wanted to write about it, immortalise the moment in ink and paper, and finally have that one person he can talk to about the sky. He has always looked out the window, wondering when the skies will paint themselves, wondering when the grass will be more than just white plains that go on and on. 

But he guesses not everybody is meant for great love stories. He should be thankful his one happened early when he can still explore the world in bright shades of the rainbow, some people meet their soulmate so late they aren't given the chance to see all the colours. He's only sixteen and he can see the whole world in shades that people triple his age can only imagine. 

But his didn't happen like they did in the books he read, wasn't even half as magical as his parent's one. He didn’t like how it happened, 

_ or with whom. _

* * *

"Ian, I want you to personally cover this month’s festivities lead by the Student Council, is that clear?”

Sir Habac, the school's principal was looking at him through his glasses on the tip of his nose, one of his eyebrows shot up in an attempt to pressure Ian in this agreement. He had one too many of these conversations already. Sir Habac just didn't scare him anymore and the former knew that. 

Besides, Ian would like to think he already formed a weird professional relationship with the principal due to the many times he represented their school in press conferences and writing contests. And they both knew, that he can't really say no to this request. 

Despite that he thinks: why can't he say no if he really wanted to? Because he really wanted to say no. Ian swears if only the people in this room can feel how much he's restraining himself not to roll his eyes and walk out, they'd let him walk out now. The pettiness to cross his arms over his body and stomp out of the room is strong. 

Especially when the boy beside him is grinning from ear to ear, letting out a light snicker every now and then when he knows that Ian's strings are slowly tearing one by one—he can’t believe the principal does not see and hear this. 

_Reprimand him, will you?_

“Is that clear?” Sir Habac repeats, waiting for his answer. 

He’s still trying to find his way around this. He's the Editor-in-Chief! This is no longer his job—sure, he can cover events and he still writes feature and news articles when he has the time and the paper really needs extra ones, but he can do so without working with Annoying incarnate beside him. 

“Sir, but, I have my News Writers for that and—“ 

“Alam ko naman ‘yon, pero this will be one of the biggest programs that the school will hold, buti nga nag take ng initiative ang Student Council. At dagdag mo pa, this academic year, two of my best students are heads of the student council and the school news paper — when will we ever have that chance again, ‘di ba?" 

Ian almost wanted to say, _You can't flatter your way for this, Sir Habac. I'm not a Leo_. But even without the flattery, the Principal already knows he needs to agree. 

“And I’ve talked to Paolo here, he doesn’t have any problems with it, ‘no, Pao?”

_Paolo._ Of course, the perfect student—the one who doesn't give headaches to the admin because he just says yes to everything asked of him. Ian fists his palm from where it laid under him. He went to this school first! 

_Student leaders shouldn't always just readily say yes! Ask what's better for the student body—what's better for me!_

Ian doesn’t need to look at him to know that he's enjoying this. He probably lives off on annoying him—his life adding more days whenever Ian curses him in his mind and Ian is too agitated to care that he's probably adding more years to Annoying incarnate's life. 

“No, Sir! I’m completely on board with it.” He can hear the smile in the boy's voice, can almost see his boyish grin and that glint of mischief and arrogance in his eyes. 

_ Do it yourself then. _

Sir Habac looks at him expectantly and he sighs because there really is no way out of here, is there? Besides, he can't be saying no this vehemently while Paolo says yes that easily. They might say that he's easier to deal with than him when it's so obvious he's just faking. 

“Okay, Sir,” He finally huffs, sitting up straight from his slump. 

“Good, dismiss na kayo, you two still have class, right?”

They both nod and the principal waves them off with his hand and Ian immediately bolts off. Even in rushing,  Ian’s steps are heavy as well as his breathing. 

How can one stand breathing the same air as Paolo? He feels like he can suffocate any minute. _How has he been sharing the same school with him for almost 4 years now?_ He is amazed at his own patience. 

Ian is still walking fast, but of course, somebody is faster than him and finally caught up even with his head start. Ian groaned when the latter slowed down and walked beside him. 

“Luh, ba’t ba nagiging aso ka pag malapit sa ‘kin?” Paolo chuckled. 

Ian ignores him. If he gives in to his antics, he’d burst and he isn’t that angry yet to see their school blow up. _Unless..._

“Ingat, ha, baka mabasag mo tiles sa bigat ng yapak mo,” Paolo says, imitating the frowning boy’s manner of walking, their steps echoing in the empty hallway.

Paolo thinks he's funny and quirky like this, doesn't he? Ian wanted to pull his hair out. He has had enough of this boy for today—actually, he's had enough of him on every week day for the last years. Can he keep some peace and quiet to himself?

“You’re annoying,” Ian whispers when Paolo still won’t stop imitating his walk. 

“So you’ve said before,” Paolo yawns, “Wala bang bago d’yan, _Pangilinan_?” 

And Ian absolutely loathes how they both share the same surname—one of the reasons he was riled up the moment he heard his name five fucking years ago. It was an awakening of his short-tempered and ugly side, reserved and made only for the boy next to him. 

He swears they’re not related! He confirmed it with his Mom, he won't have Paolo be even his long distant cousin or whatever. _Never!_ They do not share the same blood nor does he wishes they do! People have myths about that.

Ian keeps walking, his eyes straight ahead, his mouth clamped shut now. He can finally see their classroom—so close! He all but runs towards the door and in his hurry, bumped his arm on the doorframe.

_ Ouch!  _

“Ingat naman,” Paolo tells him and glances at his arm, but Ian knows if anything, he probably wanted to laugh at his misfortune. He always had and he always will. Paolo passes him, and continues to go inside their classroom. 

Ian takes a look at his arm and sees the faint red mark. He hates that he sees it’s red. He hates it. 

* * *

Ian is staring directly at Paolo, the latter returning the same intensity. 

Everybody around them is just watching, waiting for somebody to completely loose it. Most of the time it's Ian and Paolo plays the _I'm the level headed person_ , but today is one of those days that neither of them will let down. One of those days that Ian thinks that Paolo is letting his ugly side show, buried deep down in his facade of an amazing student body president. 

Ian just knows one day he'll crack and everybody will see how terrible he is! 

"Sino na cleaners?" One of their classmates finally spoke. They can hear somebody whisper, "Dapat naka-uwi na tayo." 

"My group cleaned last week! I'm sure it's your group's turn," Ian insisted. 

"Pero kami yung naglinis last Friday kasi nga, 'di ba pinatawag yung members ng school paper?" Paolo repeated for nth time, getting tired of this discussion. They have been talking here for the past ten minutes. His frustration is evident now. 

"But we started, then we just stopped—naglinis pa rin kami." Ian just can't see how Paolo can't seem to understand his logic. It's fairly easy! Is this how the President processes his information? 

"Kayo nag-umpisa, pero kami nagtapos. Ang dami n'yo pa kayang hindi nalilinis nung umalis kayo." Paolo leans back on the teacher's table—Ian is before him, arms crossed over his chest. 

"See! Kami nag-umpisa and," Ian stops for a breath, as if he'd shout the next line, "ang dami na kaya naming nalinis no'n!" 

Paolo raises his eyebrow and this irks Ian even more, "Blackboard lang nalinis n'yo, oy." 

Ian stomps away and gets the broom from the corner of the room and raises it towards Paolo, "I can clearly remember na nagwalis ako!" 

"Bakit inulit pa namin yung pagwawalis mo?" 

The people in the room can practically see the steam coming from Ian. They're all looking around at each other, pushing and whispering to just let the two go home and that they'd manage cleaning the room all by themselves. But they know, from previous arguments that this was not a solution. 

"Malay ko sa inyo!" Ian marched up towards Paolo again, his shoulders tensed up, a complete contrast to Paolo's leaned back posture. 

Paolo finally sighs and gets the broom from Ian's hand, snatches it really. And the curly haired boy wishes and prays that it was unnoticed by everybody in the room: the way he flinched and pulled his hand back at the sudden contact. 

"Oh?!" He asks, his voice loud, trying to mask his surprise with annoyance instead—and he _is_ agitated, still. 

"Kami na maglilinis, para tapos na." Paolo sounded resigned and everybody started to whisper and Ian thought that this is all for show! He can't seriously be giving his pride up! And this is why—he snatches the broom from him, careful not to let their skins touch again. 

"Kami na!" He says, turning around and telling his group that they can continue cleaning up their room. 

And he almost jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder—almost went blind at the sudden light, at the sudden blow that would have knocked him down if only he didn't have all these walls keeping him up whenever he was within close proximity. 

He shrugs his hand off and faces him, his face in a grimace and his eyebrows scrunched up. _How dare you?_

"Ano ba?" Paolo asks, his voice quiet and frustrated. 

"Kami na nga!" Ian turned his back again and whispered, "Ikaw na naman mabait, ta's ako yung hindi."

"What?" And Ian knows he was about to touch his shoulder again, can already feel his hand hovering around his skin. He doesn't want to go crazy today—that's why he stepped forward so Paolo's hand can land on air. 

"Wala," he says starting to broom the floor, "go on your President duties, kami na dito." 

The boy sweeping can hear and feel how heavy the President's sigh of frustration was and almost wanted to say that if he was annoyed with him, then just come out and say it, at least then he'll have a reason. 

At least the, maybe this won't be as petty as it seems, won't be unreasonable. He'll have a legitimate reason why he feels this exasperated and frustrated. _You already do, Ian._

He shakes his head and continues to focus his mind on cleaning. He feels him walk out the room along with his group, and Ian continues to sweep the floor—making sure that the beige tiles looked clean and shiny. 

* * *

It was a Friday afternoon, the sun high and bright. Their classes has just ended and Ian wanted to run away from his responsibilities of being the head journalist of the event, but he knew himself better, that even with Annoying incarnate leading the event—he'd want the best possible cover for his newspaper. 

He'd been working on this paper for years, he won't let—even if it _is_ Paolo who he swears is his sworn enemy for life—anything get in the way for producing quality content.

Paolo has already ruined a great deal for him in the journalism department—he won't let it happen again. The division press conference that happened five years ago will not have a repeat in history! He will not let him take his thunder. 

He will not let him have the upper hand, have himself fall and stumble while Paolo walks with his head up high not a care in the world. No, not again. 

But for now, he was pacing back and forth in front of his best friend, Justine, who was seated on the stairs. This was their secret place—away from all the buzz and chatter from the roaming students downstairs. They have long since claimed the quiet hallway of the 5th floor as their own. This hallway has heard all of their secrets and joined in with their triumphs and failures. 

And sometimes, _or most of the time,_ Ian's petty rants about Paolo. 

"I swear! Anything he does, umiinit lang talaga ulo ko! ‘Yun ata purpose n’ya of being,” Ian huffed, his arms across his chest. Justine's eyes lazily followed her best friend going feline in front of her. 

It was another normal day being this boy's best friend. 

“And being student body president," Justine deadpanned, shrugging her shoulders. 

“Who even voted for him?” Ian rolled his eyes, sighing and finally taking a sit on the stairs. 

He remembers the day Paolo won, how happy he looked—the grin that he always wears present, his eyes shining with joy and pride; how everybody cheered him on and told him what an amazing president he'd be. 

He remembers editing the article for the election win. Crossing, circling, erasing, adding—the paper was red all over. Frankly, he seemed like he wrote the article himself because the one passed to him did not make sense at all. 

“Uh,” Justine raises her hand, “I did. Ang walang kwenta kaya nung sa opposing team and despite annoying you, Paolo is an amazing leader.”

_Fine. Maybe it was true._ But it was also true that the rival was a lot less annoying to Ian. _Anyone is less unnerving than Paolo._ Just one look at the boy and he'd have a reason to get irritated for the whole day. 

“Parang hindi naman?” 

Justine looks at him incredulously and takes what he said seriously _and_ pushes his shoulder. Ian rubs where his best friend had hit him, while looking at her, his mouth agape, feigning hurt all over his face. 

“Don’t tell me you didn’t vote for him because of your rivalry?” Ian stays quiet and receives another push from his best friend, her face disgusted. 

"Justine!" He whines, this time the hurt wasn't so fake. 

“Deserve mo! You voted for the other candidate na sobrang walang ambag?!” She was getting up from beside him and puts her hand on her waist when she stands before him, one of her eyebrows shot up, not believing that her best friend who does not shut up about justice, integrity and how the organisations from high school very much mirror the system that would later on lead the country, did that!

“I abstained!” Ian reasons out, standing up as well and tries to convince the former that maybe what he did was better. 

“Enabler!” Justine shouted at him, turning her back and walking out. 

“Where are you going?” Ian says, shouting after her when she suddenly sped up and ran down the stairs, "Wait up! Sa'n tayo pupunta?" 

“I'm getting snacks of my own pero bawal for people who can’t shut up about Paolo Pangilinan and who are enablers! Can't believe you!”

Ian stops from chasing after her and holds on to the railings—he _can_ shut up about Paolo and he is not an enabler! Maybe a liar, but not an enabler. Maybe...

_But which one is worse?_

He stares after Justine wearing their school's blue coloured uniform and runs a hand through his hair, releasing a staggering breath. _Maybe a liar, maybe._

* * *

One busy Wednesday, Sir Severo walked into the room carrying stacks of paper—Ian immediately stood up and helped him to carry some of it. He took half of what he had and gently put it down on the teacher's table. Ian liked to spend his afternoons here, especially when he's editing for the school newspaper. 

"Tapos ka na ba sa article ni Marc?" The teacher asked as he sat down on his chair, looking at his prodigy. Sir Severo has always admired Ian's writing skills the moment he met him four years ago. 

"Ang daming excess sentences, 'di naman na kailangan ta's there's some missing parts din from the game. Good thing I watched with him," Ian groaned walking back to his chair, slumping and letting his head fall back. They had talented journalists in the team, but sometimes he thinks they're just too lazy to proofread, expecting him to do all that. 

"I told you, reprimand your writers. Hindi dapat ikaw ang nagsusulat ng articles nila," Sir Severo pointed at him and put his glasses on, getting a specific paper from the pile. 

"Aren't you supposed to reprimand them? Ba't po ako, Sir?" Ian tilted his head looking amused, stubborn, questioning. During these times, the head teacher of the paper is reminded that he is dealing with a sixteen year old despite how talented and how experienced the tone of his works were. 

"Halika dito," he beckoned the student with his hand. Ian stood up and immediately pulled a chair to sit beside Sir Severo, reading the paper that laid in front of them. _It was his._

One of his latest ones, just a feature article he passed in case their articles fell short and they needed more for the layout. He has always loved writing and he hopes that nothing will ever take that away. It's the only outlet he has for the everything that he sees. 

The only reason that makes this suffering worth it. 

The teacher stretched out the article before them and shook his head, “I really can’t believe you can’t see colours yet. Sa lagay na ito, hindi pa, ha?”

Ian squirms in his seat, his eyes darting away from the person he has looked up to for the past years. A realisation from the other day seemingly come to mind: _Maybe a liar, maybe._ And maybe he'll continue to be one for the rest of his life. 

“Your pieces on colours are always exquisite. They feel real, as if colours are tangible objects—at lahat tayo ay pwedeng mahawakan ito,” Sir Severo looked at him, “Malayo ang mararating mo, Ian. ‘Wag lang matigas ulo.” He turned towards his teacher again now, his eyes questioning. _What does he mean?_

“Sir Habac told me ayaw mo i-cover yung event dahil Student Council ang in charge.” Ian rolled his eyes, the mentor knew it wasn’t directed at him, but instead to the person the former talks about in afternoons when they’re both free from editing and their duties, Ian can’t help but let all of his frustrations known.

“Bakit ba inis na inis ka kay Paolo?” Sir Severo kept his article inside his table and started to arrange some of the papers while they talked. Ian looked at him, raising a brow. 

“You know,” he stated. He has told this story countless of times, despite how petty it does sound to his ears now, but at the time it meant the world. Somehow, it does mean the world. 

“Five years ago na nung tinalo ka n’ya sa division press conference.” The teacher doesn’t see the logic behind his favourite student’s actions and Ian is mostly logical on all things, except this one.

“And humiliated me,” Ian crossed his arms on his chest, “people kept on congratulating me because they heard Pangilinan won. Hindi naman pala ako,”

Ian can remember the day vividly and how he looked so happy as a swarm of his schoolmates went to their room to announce that he won—division level, feature writing english, elementary level. He would have won champion for three consecutive years then. 

“Hindi n’ya kasalanan na magka-apelido kayo at hindi n’ya kasalanan na nanalo s’ya.”

Sir Severo wonders how many times has he told this to the boy? And how many times has he been ignored? It’s like one ear in and out with this one. Ian wanted to open his mouth to say something, but closes it as soon as he does. He can’t—no, he can’t be humiliated like that.

Imagine, the person who has talked about colours and soulmates all their life has the crappiest story out there—is one of the select few of the population that actually doesn’t have a soulmate. 

People have myths about the colours—they suspect that not everybody will see the shades of the rainbow in their lifetime and that a select few, three ever recorded in history—but one that Ian’s sure he’s a part of, can see, but doesn’t have a soulmate to reciprocate. They say the colours aren’t as bright, some of them dull. _An injustice, really. Who built the system like this?_

But still, he’s already thankful of the ones he can see—they’re already the brightest as they can be. Ian doesn’t ask for more, he can’t. He knows that—he’s read too many stories about these heartbreaks, knows that it's real.

He thought that he always just craved the colours, but little did he know, he was also always waiting for the person that came with it and sadly, he doesn't have that. 

He looks out and sees the sky with its ocean beauty—purple and pink playing with each other on the horizon. _Aren’t they a spectacle? How much brighter can they be?_

He keeps this to himself and continues to edit the article before him using a bright red pen. 

* * *

He remembers one time during Grade 8 when nobody seemed to have anything better to do and everybody huddled around a bottle, squealing when it landed on them. _Truth or dare_. Ian remembers not wanting to play—he remembers telling everybody off and he remembers some of his classmates say how much of a killjoy he was. 

But then he saw Paolo take a seat in the circle and of course, he didn't want anybody to think that he was better than him just because of a stupid game that didn't matter.  So, he played and the bottle spun. 

Squeals of laughter and excitement enveloped their small room. It was too noisy for Ian, but he sat there in his spot next to Justine, only talking when prompted or asked by the other people beside him. He didn't want to be here and he certainly wasn't going to act like he did. He just needed to sit down and show everybody what a good sport he was. 

Besides, it's been several spins now and almost twenty minutes since he sat down. The bottle hasn't landed on hi—

_Fuck. Spoke too soon_. 

And on the other end of the bottle was Paolo and he asked him there, the same question everybody asks each other the first time it lands on you no matter if you choose truth or dare—the question always comes out, one way or another, _"Do you see colour?"_

Ian is reminded why he was adamant on not playing. 

He looked at Paolo then, wearing his bright green polo in their blue painted room, the light illuminating his face—his cheeks rosy and his lips red: heart, blood, life, beating. _Alive_. He's alive and he's on the other end of the circle and he doesn't see the same colours that Ian does. He doesn't see the rainbow that surrounds them. 

Ian swallows past the lump in his throat and breathed in—deep, the air hurting his lungs heavy with burden and pain. And he answered, his voice not quivering one bit, he has tried to practice control since the moment he laid his eyes on him, "Not yet." 

And he looks away, he can't look when he knows the hues are screaming at him, have been screaming at him, but there isn't much he can do. 

* * *

Ian has been with colour for the past five years. When he closes his eyes, he can no longer imagine the black and white world that surrounded him, except on days he tries to remember when it all changed. 

"Pangilinan! Ikaw daw champion. Narinig namin sa judges!" His friends rushed in the room, their grins taking over their faces. They were happy for him and he was just as ecstatic. This would be the third year that he has bagged the champion title—he only sees the way up from here. 

They spent the remainder of the day till the awarding going around the foreign school and having fun. The leaves looked white and the trunks looked black. Everything was monochrome. Ian looked at his melon samalamig and drank the white juice. He can't wait for everything to be colourful—can't wait when the shades finally scream at him. 

He remembers how his Dad describes the word green and how he'd always compare him with it. How the words peaceful and serene would make it to him. His Dad said it contained more life than red could ever be. It was the colour of the leaves—of healthy crops, proving food and energy. He has that in mind and he continues to have that in mind. 

They finally took a seat amongst the crowd and awaited for each of their categories to be called. Ian already knew he won, there was no reason to be nervous. When his category came, he smugly glanced at his friends and already stood up. 

His coach went beside him and they waited for his name to be called and it came sooner than they expected. 

"First runner up, Feature Writing English: Contestant number 66, Ian Pangilinan!" 

The crowd cheered, but Ian already felt the hot flush of blood creep up on his cheeks, can already feel the embarrassment form on the corner of his eyes. The utter disappointment in himself—and the anger that came soon after at the false pretence and hope that he won. He wouldn't be bothered as much if they didn't get his hopes up! 

As he went down the stage, the emcee called on the champion, "And for this year's Division Press Conference champion for Feature Writing English: Contestant number 67, Paolo Pangilinan!" 

_ Pangilinan? How dare he?  _

Ian immediately ran in front of the stage to see who won and had the same surname!  What the young boy didn't know then, that moment was about to change his life. He looked up and there, where he stood, somehow, the kid from the stage found his eyes.

_ He finally understood what his Dad meant about the colour green.  _

Ian had to step back from the impact of what happened, had to close his eyes and hold on to the nearest thing he can to keep himself upright.  It was nothing like he read before, nothing he ever wrote or will ever write in his life will ever come close to what he felt. It wasn't the rays of the sun. It wasn't electricity. Nothing travelled from his toes to the strands of his hair—he felt it all at once. 

_ He felt it change him to the core.  _

He felt it from behind his eyelids and the anticipation that when he finally regains composure, everything will be different. It bursted from within him, an understanding of what he has yet to explore. 

The moment he opened his eyes, the world had changed. He looks at the stage and it's not black and white anymore—he understands that it's blue, the flowers surrounding it are pink with green leaves. _That's green!_

He looks at the kid still in the middle of the stage and he's wearing a _green_ uniform and his cheeks are flushed with the flowers that surrounded him. He smiles and his lips red: heart, blood, life, beating. _Alive._

Nothing his parents told him have prepared him for this moment. 

He looks closely at the kid on stage again and he hears his heart thump and his blood rush up to his head, already feeling lightheaded when it doesn't seem like the world changed for him as it did Ian—doesn't look like time stopped and held him captive for a moment. The other Pangilinan shook people's hands up on stage and smiled calmly. 

_How can you act like nothing has changed when it feels like the world has uprooted you from where you stood?_

And the realisation suddenly dawns on him. He doesn't see the world like Ian does, doesn't know the way he shook the boy's world, doesn't know that the shades are now taunting. 

_ What does a young boy do when his world of black and white suddenly shifts and he has no one to talk with about all the new colours?  _

He rushed out of there as soon as he can, frantic and in despair. He looked at everything before him, drinking in the colour, but it's suffocating, it's all in his face. Why didn't the kid looked any different? Why didn't he stumble up on top just like Ian needed support to stand up? Why does it seem like it's only Ian that found his _soulmate_ and his soulmate didn't find him? 

Ian wasn't able to join the Regional Schools Press Conference that year. He wasn't strong enough for training with the other winners, _with him_. He told his parents he was sick, no one knew that he saw his blood dark red when the Doctor took it and told them there was nothing serious going on. 

It was a surprise when the kid transferred to his school the next year, but it was no surprise when the kid acted indifferent. Just remembering they were in the same contest the year before. Nothing more than that. Ian should have already known, his hunch was true. They saw each other eye-to-eye, that much he was sure of. If it affected both of them, the other Pangilinan should have reacted differently.

Everything should have been different. 

It was blinding to see him again, the colours burning Ian. Vibrant and loud. He wonders how the people with soulmates could handle such intensity. _How much brighter can they be?_

He built up walls, as high as he could. He got frustrated by just the sight of him blazing and screaming in colour. He could never stand it. 

He's heard of tales—how not having that person to share the colours will haunt you, creep up at you at nights when everything seems lovely and colourful and you know that it's just a consolation price for never having the person to share it with. The way it won't be as bright. 

Since then, Ian swore nobody would ever know that his world no longer exists with neutrality. _He promised to keep it in secrecy._

* * *

It was the day of the event Ian was asked to cover. He personally liked taking the pictures and he knew he had a better eye on it, anyway. He'd take the right angles and knew what colours to put in the frame. He went around the school grounds, camera in hand. 

He hasn't taken sight of his sworn enemy, not that he was looking for him, anyway. _He wasn't._

Their school is hosting a senior high school track orientation for their batch and have invited other schools. Paolo took initiative, like he always does and as the perfect student body president that he is. Sir Habac is impressed, like always. Everybody is. 

Ian looked up at the perfect sky and admired the soft clouds that mixed perfectly with the ocean. He never imagined that white could have looked any bit differently. It's more serene, quieter somehow than the white he was always used to. He raised his camera and took some pictures. Not a lot of people would be able to appreciate, not a lot of people can see colours as young as he is. 

_ It has been both a curse and a blessing.  _

He roamed the school and took note of all the programs happening today and all the people involved. He still hasn't seen Annoying incarnate. He doesn't want to—he swears, he doesn't want to. Sometimes, the colours are too much for him, constantly being reminded that when the other sees him it's in monochrome. 

He sweeps the floor with his presence once more, joining in some open booths and listening to the speakers talk. Sir Habac sees him and raises a hand, nods towards him in an acknowledgement, evidently happy that he's doing his request. Well, he wasn't really given the choice to back out, was he? 

His eyes scan the big gymnasium and everything is screaming at him and he feels his throat itch—how long has he wanted to say that he sees all of these beauty? How long will his pride hold him back? How long is it till he can accept that the only reason that he hasn't said anything is because it'll become more real when he finally utters the words to say that he does see? That it has been years since he has? 

That in keeping quiet, maybe it isn't real. Maybe he isn't bound to spend his life without a soulmate when all he ever did was to surround himself with stories of passion and hues and shades and tints. 

And he senses his presence before he can see him—not because there's a fifth sense whenever he's there, but just because he always attracts a crowd around him. Everybody seems to be drawn. A crowd of students flock around him and Ian can hear his laughter from all the way to where he stood. 

He walks over to check whatever the commotion is about and because he is covering the event and he needs to cover all grounds, and as he nears, he can see in the contrast of all the blue uniform that surrounded him, Paolo was wearing a _green_ coloured shirt with a President written on the back and shoulders—the colour almost beckoning him to come over. It shines bright in the otherwise dull gymnasium and for a moment, Ian thinks it's the only colour he can see. 

He has always knew of the colour green, but he only came to understand when he saw it on him. 

People around Paolo are complimenting on the event, and on the new shirt that bore his title. How can they say that it's pretty without knowing how it actually shone in the irises of Ian's eyes?

Not knowing how beautiful it actually is with the shade staring back at Ian, taunting, in his face. He has started to like the colour less and less since that fateful encounter. 

Ian wanted to roll his eyes at everybody. And in this, in spite, he presses himself through the crowd, Paolo looks up at him and Ian tries to ignore the flush of his cheeks and instead raises his eyebrows and says, out of annoyance, out of pettiness and because his throat has been itching and he can't stand the swarm of people telling Paolo how good he looked in this shirt that was always his colour. 

" Green doesn’t look good on you. " 

_ Green doesn’t look good on you. _

_ Green doesn’t look good on you. _

_ Green doesn’t look good on you. _

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That wasn't supposed to slip.  _

All the students around them stopped and looked at him. 

_He's always said he has yet to see colour. How come he knows?_

Everybody seems to be holding their breaths. You could hear a pin drop. 

He looks around the people around him and turns his gaze to Paolo and it's too bright. He looks away. 

_It's real isn't it? I said that, didn't I?_

He opens his mouth and closes it again. He desperately tries to think of a way out of this, something witty to say about how he has always written about colour, how green has always seemed special—how it can be compared to leaves and healthy crops. _Bullshit your way out of this, Pangilinan, like the way you have for the past five years._

"I—"

He starts, but there are no words to save face. He looks down and is about ready to run away from the crowd. They know he's been lying—they know he's a liar. How can they trust his words again? 

_At least they know it's not him._ At least they can think it's somebody else, a soulmate they don't know. 

But a pair of feet appear in his line of sight and he follows it to see and green greets him once again like it did all those years ago when he thought the world was over. He follows it up till he sees  Paolo. 

And Paolo smiles, his easy one, the one you know he wears before he grins—his eyes wide with awe, some kind of understanding that Ian has yet to know, with wonder and amazement. Paolo has never looked more alive than in that moment. 

A realisation dawning on him, satisfied and happy. 

"Maybe, but I've always liked it on you, though." 

_ Maybe, but I've always liked it on you, though. _

_ Maybe, but I've always liked it on you, though. _

_ Maybe, but I've always liked it on you, though. _

And Ian stumbles back, his knees giving out just like the way he did five years ago, but now Paolo reaches for his arm and pulls him right back up. Ian can hear his heart in his ears, can feel it in his chest, he can feel warmth rush to his all the parts of his body, from his toes to the strands of his hair.

He looks around and no colours are brighter, they have been as bright as they've always been. 

He looks at Paolo, his mouth agape. This is the closest they've been. 

"But blue is still better on you." The boy clad in the green shirt is still holding his arm. 

Everybody around them is quiet and nobody is moving and they can't believe what they're witnessing, can't believe that they have lived to witness such a spectacle. The two boys have dulled their shades, swallowed the fact that their world of monochrome was no longer as it is, but secrets always have their ways of coming out and this is one of the most colourful one there is. 

There has been no reason to keep this in and they realise that now looking at each other, bright, alive and full of all the shades that they could ever imagine. 

* * *

_They say the moment you meet your soulmate's eyes—colours will burst before you._

But this wasn't the case for Paolo, it happened when his eyes landed on him. Focused and determined, looking down and scribbling on his piece of paper. It happened even before he could step in the room where everything suddenly changed and he no longer knew what a black and white world felt like. 

Paolo felt it all over his body, engulfing him in such a way that he had to hold on to the doorframe to brace himself. He felt it like little kisses of warmth and light and he knew then, nothing will ever be the same. He never expected the time would come this fast, this young, but he has never been the one to complain. Come as it is and he'll accept it. 

He has read stories, has heard of the myths—everybody has. But he has never heard one quite like this. It was one of those one in a million stories that he loves reading about. His favourite story would always be Colour Magazine's 1988 Cover. 

The moment he opened his eyes, his eyes focused on one colour: _blue_. All the other shades around him failed in comparison. 

Paolo wonders if it only affected him since the boy still hasn't looked up. He immediately took the empty chair beside him. He took note of his uniform: _blue, blue, blue._

He has read that the colour painted the sky, he wonders if that was a match to the shade he was seeing now. The boy's curly hair that was a shade of black he never knew could exist—his cheeks red, flushed, _alive_. 

_Ganito palang kaganda ang mga kulay na 'to?_

Paolo kept glancing at him, willing him to look up. Praying that he does and wondering what will happen the minute their eyes meet or the minute his eyes land on Paolo. But the proctor has started giving instructions and the boy still hasn't looked up, still reading, still scribbling. It hasn't even begun yet. 

"The topic for feature writing english is the ocean. Good luck, everybody."

And so, Paolo starts to write, but without not glancing at the boy beside him. The colour and him mixing with the thought of the ocean. Paolo can't wait to go to the beach again only to confirm his theory. 

He went out of the room without the boy looking up at him. He went out of the room, happy to know that he might bump into him in the afternoon. He pulled his friends to roam around, and they did and Paolo's eyes darted everywhere, the colours blazing, bright and beckoning him, but his focus was somewhere else, or someone else.

He tried to find him, but to no such luck, he didn't. Not until the awarding. 

And he saw him, trudge up the stage. He's a Pangilinan, too, but Paolo's already sure that they're not related—he's heard of the myths. You can never connect like that with somebody from the same bloodline. 

The other Pangilinan—Ian, he heard of his name, walked up the stage, a frown on his face. Paolo wonders if it's because he didn't bag Champion—Paolo actually thought Ian would win, too.

So, it was a surprise when his own name was called. He wasn't even supposed to join in the first place, he was just a stand in for his classmate that got sick. 

When he stood on the stage, he immediately tried to find him amongst the crowd, and there he was—in front of the and their eyes finally met. 

And Paolo swears the world did get that much brighter when it did. 

He saw the boy reach out on a post, but Paolo was suddenly turned away when his Coach gently tugged on him to shake hands with the judges of the contest. When he turned back around, the boy was nowhere in sight. Paolo thought that was the last he'd see of him, but he was confident in their connection. And even more confident in himself—that's why the next year for high school, he convinced his parents he needed to transfer. 

And he did and he saw him in all his colourful glory. The shades screaming—bright, alive and blazing. All the colours in the world don't come close to the beauty that the boy possessed, but the boy completely shut him out. Walls up high, keeping him out. He approached him, but every time Ian would turn his smiles down—looking away, not even acknowledging his presence. 

Until he did, but with grimace, with annoyance and frustration. Paolo didn't know what to think. This isn't exactly how all the stories he's read goes. 

And he thinks maybe, maybe he's keeping it just like he was. Maybe, Ian was seeing colour and just didn't want anybody to know, yet. Maybe he had a reason Paolo has yet to know. Maybe. 

But the time came and he asked him in all his shades, his bright blue shirt screaming at Paolo and his cheeks alive with colour—his eyes a shade Paolo wants to know since the day he saw him, brown. He wonders if the time will come that those brown eyes will look at him with fondness instead of hostility. Wonders if there's a chance. 

And so he asks, 

_"Do you see colour?"_

All he wants to hear is yes, but Ian answers, his voice straight and clear, "Not yet."

_Hindi pa, Paolo. Hindi ikaw. Hindi kayo._

That was until the boy told him that he didn't look good in green, when his brow eyes widened at the sudden slip, when his lips of red opened and closed—a desperate attempt to cover up. 

_ Walang dapat pagtakpan, Ian, nakikita ko rin ang lahat ng kulay dahil sa 'yo.  _

Paolo has had enough of the years that the former has kept him out. When Paolo knew even then, _that day_ , that they were absolute. 

It has been years since that happened. Those sixteen year old boys who were scared that it wasn't reciprocated. Those boys that knew what they felt, but have always been afraid that maybe it wasn't shared. They read the stories, they've heard of the myths, but nothing ever really prepares you for when it happens to _you_. 

Now, they lay on green grass, the ocean stretched above them and their hands warm. Paolo brings it up to his lips and he glances at the boy next to him and he's already looking and Paolo has only asked for fondness, but Ian now looks at him with a promise. 

A promise that as long as they both shall live, the colours would stay as bright—their lives would always bear all the shades of the rainbow. 

"I love green on you," the boy with the brown eyes say, glancing at his shirt. 

"So, you've said before," Paolo grins in that way that Ian has told him a thousand times over that he absolutely loves, "Wala bang bago d'yan, Pangilinan?" 

Ian chuckles and pulls him closer hugging him, tight, warm, engulfing him. Just the way he felt when he first laid his eyes on him. 

_ They say the moment you meet your soulmate's eyes—colours will burst before you. _

Maybe, but that wasn't the case for Ian and Paolo— theirs are their own, a story they've learned to love to tell with all the words and with all the colours that they know—bright, alive and blazing. 

**Author's Note:**

> To the one who sent in the prompt, I really do hope you like it. Might be a tad different than what you were after though, sorry 'bout that. 
> 
> To my friends, AAAAAH, thank you always for the words of encouragement.
> 
> Special thanks to Rei for calming me down when I wanted to scrap the whole thing off. Thank you for talking the story with me. Thank you for listening and believing!


End file.
